


The Lady Vanishes

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Hitchcock Inspired, Novel to Film to Fanfic, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne Tarth is set to marry a smarmy Hyle Hunt, but one week before the wedding, she's taken refuge in a distant Northern ski town to collect her thoughts. There's no time to find peace, however, between the attentions of the elderly Miss Frey and a smug stranger who refuses to share his surname, going only by Jaime. </p>
<p>On the train back to King's Landing, Miss Frey disappears, but no one believes Brienne that a Miss Frey even exists. Brienne is forced to accept Jaime's help in finding her new friend since he is the only passenger who believes her story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imagineagreatadventure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineagreatadventure/gifts).



> Ugh! (*wrings hands in woe, wears a hair shirt*)
> 
> I've been stuck in a block almost the whole year, but I think I've finally clawed my way out. Thanks to the J/B Board ladies for keeping my writing spirits up, and to Mikki/ikkiM for not only beta-ing to perfection, but for talking me through my rough patch. This is gifted to Imagineagreatadventure for posting the Lady Vanishes prompt on the board, even though I had already outlined this fic! Mindreader, you!
> 
> This story also takes place in the Westeros equivalent of the 1930s, because weird 20th century settings are apparently my thing. My version is based on the 1938 Alfred Hitchcock film, which itself is based on the novel by Ethel Lina White. They are both wonderful.

 

Brienne Tarth frantically wrapped a thick woolen scarf around her head, over the earmuffs and ski hat she already wore. Then she clutched a pillow over her ears, then the duvet. She scowled fiercely and kicked her feet in her bed until the sheets were a hopeless cause, matching her frustration.

The Queenscrown Lodge was _supposed_ to be a haven of alpine peace. She was _supposed_ to have achieved a sense of calm and resignation during her much-objected-to solo retreat, yet on this last night, there was nothing but agitation.

And it seemed that nothing would drown out the mad clomping of feet and metallic bellowing of the upstairs guests’ musical “talent.”

For the third time in an hour, Brienne flung her layers away and stalked to her window. The glass rattled from the commotion, making the image of the silver moon tremble as if it, too, shook with rage.

She wrestled with the window latch until she could spread the two halves apart and allow frigid northern air to whip straight through to her bones. The noise of the upstairs party doubled, the revelers whooping and stomping to some butchered Westerlands folk song. Brienne leaned precariously over the sill, twisting so she could peer up at the room above hers.

A low whistle filtered through the madness, from somewhere below. Brienne stood upright again and scanned the pitch darkness for signs of more night owl guests, but she could see nothing. The old-growth trees just looked like silent black sentinels from her second-floor perch.

The whistling fought its way through again, another melody simpler and sweeter than its rowdy counterpart. Brienne pressed her palms to the smooth wooden window ledge and leaned out. There, against the tree line bordering the inn, was a figure in traditional Northern garb. One of the inn’s musicians, likely.

As her eyes adjusted to the night, she saw a flicker of illumination to her right. Two windows down, a candle’s flame fluttered in the breeze, and a pale hand gestured toward the whistler. At the same time, the party upstairs somehow, magically, grew even louder. Brienne had quite enough of that nonsense.

She tilted her head up to shout, “Shut up! Just shut up, you selfish idiots!”

The party’s noise didn’t falter for a second, but the whistling instantly stopped. Brienne just caught sight of the man stepping back into the shadows as she watched.

“Off with you, scoundrel. Beggars aren’t welcome here.” A steel-tinged female voice floated from the realm of the pale hand with a force only an elderly matriarch could demonstrate.

Brienne’s gaze snapped to the candle-wielder, now leaning outside her own window like a white spectre.

“Can you believe this racket?” Brienne nearly snarled, adopting the other woman as a comrade in frustration whether she wanted to be or not.

“Damn fools,” the woman replied, flashing a wicked little smile. “I’ve complained several times already. I’m tempted to march right down to the desk and demand they be thrown out.”

The woman’s eyes sparkled, and Brienne couldn’t decide whether it was from amusement or determination. Likely both. “Do it, or we’ll never get any sleep.”

The woman stood still for a moment, giving nothing away in the dim light. Then she gave a quick nod. “Right then, off we go.” She ducked back into her room, the yellow candle glow dissipating after her.

Oh. Brienne sighed deeply and wondered whether her hasty actions would ever stop getting her into pickles. The woman would certainly expect her out in the hall in mere seconds. She’d have to follow through, but the idea was suddenly unappealing. She’d have to be _seen_. There would be _words_.

Her father had been right. She should have remained on Tarth and accepted her fate without this foolish attempt at soul-searching. She felt no more at peace than when she’d left a month ago, and possibly even more angry.

Nothing for it now, however. She pulled on her heavy winter boots over the legs of her father’s blue silk pajamas and strode to her door with far more confidence than she felt inside. The woman was waiting, a knit shawl draped artfully over elegant shoulders and a generous bosom, her gray hair in a slightly-frizzled bun that did nothing to diminish the air of wisdom she wore like armor.

The woman scanned her up and down with a slight smile lurking at the corner of her lips. “Aren’t you a tall one…we should have little problem convincing the staff of our point, I think.”

Brienne smiled, her thick lips pressed tightly together. Yes, _Brienne the beast, Brienne the brawler._ Of course there’d be no trouble. She’d just bash any objectors around with her heavy ham fists.

She followed the woman down the log-railed staircase to the desk. She would be polite and quiet, the silent thug at the side of the leader.

“Excuse us,” the woman proclaimed loud enough to fill the deserted lobby.

The large fireplace and ambient chandeliers provided a warm glow, and a man snapped to attention from behind the enormous wood front desk. He tugged the ends of his starched red jacket. “Yes, madam?”

“Do you have ears?” The woman glared at the attendant, somehow more imposing than Brienne could ever hope to be despite her stature.

The attendant cleared his throat. “Ye…yes, madam?”

“Then you have surely heard the party of hooligans on the third floor. Kindly explain how the Lodge has failed to address my several complaints and enforce the atmosphere of peace and tranquility so abundantly advertised in your various materials.” The woman crossed her arms over her protruding chest and glared.

“Ye…yes, Madam Frey. Of course. We apologize for our tardiness in this matter. We will speak to the offenders at once.” The attendant made no move apart from a nervous tapping of one finger on the desk.

“Well then?” Madam Frey insisted. “And it’s Miss Frey to you.”

“Yes, at once, Miss Frey.” The attendant seemed to snap out of the haze caused by their ambush, and snapped his fingers. “Ollie?”

A young boy slunk out from a door behind the desk, rubbing his tired eyes and yanking on his red jacket as the attendant had done. “Yes, Mr. Snow?”

“Watch the desk.” The attendant, Mr. Snow, stepped out and ran his fingers through thick black hair. He was visibly nervous, and he’d barely noticed Brienne, if at all.

She followed him and Miss Frey back up the stairs to their floor, and then another. The party was still going full swing, a terrible rendition of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ now blaring from beneath the heavy wood door of the offender’s room.

Mr. Snow knocked far too softly to be heard. No response. He tapped again.

“Oh, goodness,” Miss Frey muttered, taking her own turn. She pounded much louder, but there was still no answer.

Brienne’s discomfort and frustration were reaching a boiling point. “Let me,” she almost growled.

“Certainly.” Miss Frey nodded encouragingly and stepped aside.

Brienne moved right in front of the door and slammed her clenched fist into the wood hard enough to shake the frame. Only her quick reflexes prevented her from pummeling the face of the man who flung the door open on the third round.

The man stared at her. Brienne stared at the man, her arm hovering in mid-air. She would have better appreciated the fact that they were almost the same height, something unusual enough in her experience, but she was just slightly distracted by the imagined consequence of coloring the man’s beautiful face with a large purple bruise.

She knew her eyes had gone wide. She knew she was beginning to blush that hideous shade of lobster red that made her look like a ghost with measles. The man’s defiant posture relaxed into some sort of sly amusement as he leaned against the doorframe, adopting a wicked little grin.

“Well, hello, you giant tree of a woman.” His eyes sparkled almost like Miss Frey’s had before. “You _are_ a woman, or am I mistaken?”

Brienne couldn’t control her blush, but she could narrow her eyes and glare.

The man leaned just a little closer, pretending to examine her face. “No, I’m quite sure you are.” His eyes scanned her up and down just like everyone’s always did. “And wearing men’s pajamas. The color suits you, I must say. Someone else must think so, too, or you wouldn’t have them. Tell me, do you wear them because nothing else fits or because he likes to peel them off you—ouch!”

The man clutched his reddened cheek with one hand, his eyes wide now as he peered at her with some mix of bewilderment and glee. It took Brienne several seconds to realize she’d slapped him. She’d never done such a thing before, not even to any of the men who…no, this was different somehow.

“My apologies…the Lodge’s apologies, Miss Tarth. We’ll…find some way, I hope, of compensating…” Mr. Snow stumbled over his own tongue, but Brienne barely heard.

Why should she care if somebody thought she was a loose woman? Or even a married woman? Why should she care what anybody thought at all? Because she always did.

She instantly regretted it, but she muttered, “They’re my father’s pajamas.”

Mr. Snow still mumbled, but the man grinned widely, his fingers brushing his abused cheek. “Bet you wish they were a lover’s, no? Somebody to peel them off those long legs? _I_ could peel them off—”

Her hand raised for another go, but Mr. Snow stepped between them facing the snide weasel, effective for the first time in this conflict. “We must ask you to leave for causing such disturbance.”

Brienne turned to Miss Frey to smile in acknowledgment of their victory, but the woman was no longer there. She glanced around the floor in puzzlement. Why would Miss Frey retire again before gaining assurance of their goal?

“In the middle of the night?” The offender’s tone was mock outrage. “It’s winter, and we’re in the mountains. Where am I meant to go?”

Brienne avoided the man’s eyes in favor of the scene behind him, in his room. Surely there were more than four people in there, to have made such a racket? But no, only a group of men lounged about, some too young and some old enough to know better, like the offender. They held instruments and bottles of liquor and cigars. Their eyes scanned her.

The man continued his objections, but Mr. Snow held firm. “It seems only one of you is checked in, a Mr. Marbrand? So the rest must leave. I’m sorry.”

“You are not, you little bugger.” The man didn’t seem that put out despite the situation, and when Brienne caught his eye again, there was nothing but mischief there in the green. He sighed. “Fine, fine, Addam, you’re the sod with the stags. Come on, boys. Out we go in the great North to freeze to death.” He leaned toward Brienne once more. “If you find my stiff, blue, fingerless body when you’re out skiing, give me a kiss, won’t you?”

Brienne hissed. She didn’t wait to see him leave, she just marched down to the second floor with big clonking steps in her boots. She slammed her door behind her, slipped off the offending footwear, and allowed her outrage at the miscreant’s words to flow through her. It was that or focus on the idea of silken pajamas sliding off her skin to puddle on the floor.

That itself wouldn’t be so bad, so painful in the solitude of her own thoughts, if she didn’t know for a fact that Hyle would never want to watch her do that, despite the almost unthinkable fact that she would marry him in exactly one week. Just enough time to take the train back to King’s Landing and on to Tarth. One more week, and then she’d be tied to Hyle for life, and she’d have to share his bed no matter how he mocked her. At least he’d ship out again, not long after. How terrible, she thought, to be glad her would-be husband would go back on duty when there were so many rumours of impending war. 

A sound broke shattered her thoughts. It was _her_ door being pounded upon now. The force was light but insistent. Perhaps it was Miss Frey come to speak about the incident. She opened the door with a sigh, her eyes cast down to where Miss Frey’s face should be, but they only saw a sweater-covered chest and a man’s crossed arms.

He swept past her before she could react. “Hmm, small room but decent. And a nice big bed!” He dropped a stuffed rucksack and the case for whichever instrument he had been playing and plopped right down on her crumpled white duvet.

“Oh, I think not…” Brienne finally found the sense to complain.

“What?” He grinned up at her. “You’ve made me homeless. You can’t really want me to freeze to death, can you?”

“I don’t care what you do. You’re not staying here.” She stepped close enough that her knees brushed the bed frame.

He wiggled his fingers. “My livelihood. I really can’t lose them. Surely even you aren’t that cruel, Miss…what _is_ your name, anyway? I’d called you _Blue Eyes_ or possibly _Legs_ , but you’ve marred my beauty enough for one night with all that slapping.”

“I slapped you once.”

“I distinctly felt dozens of slaps. You’re abusive. And _tall_.” His eyes dragged over her frame like honey dripping from a spoon. He toed off his shoes.

“I’m aware. You have three seconds.” She glared even harder, just trying to will him away from her with his unsettling eyes and mocking words.

“And impolite! You haven’t even asked for my name.” He wiggled under the duvet and settled his head on her pillow.

“Two seconds. I don’t care what your name is.”

“Yes, you do.”

“One second. I don’t.”

“Ooh, time’s up.” He winked at her. “It’s Jaime. My name is Jaime.” His hand snuck out from beneath the linen and patted the space next to him, a clear invitation.

She sucked in a deep breath. “How nice for you.” She grabbed his ankles, dragging him from the bed to the floor where he landed on the thick carpet with a dull thud.

“Hey!” He reached back to rub his tailbone. “As I said, impolite!”

“Get up,” she snarled.

He got up, immediately and with ease. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

“How what’s going to be?”

“This.” He gestured between the two of them. “Always fighting, bickering because you get your knickers in a twist.”

“My knickers are not—you can’t talk about my knickers!” She stepped forward with fists clenched.

“Why not? I’m sure they’re very large.”

He blocked the punch she tried to throw, but she grabbed his arm with her other hand and held on.

“You’re _strong_ ,” he admitted with a strange sort of interest before leaning in close, almost whispering, “I’m stronger.”

Brienne knew she had dug a deep hole because of her anger as she struggled to gain superiority over him. His wiry build hid a strength great enough to make her almost believe his claim. But she couldn’t let him win. If she had to submit to a feckless man for the rest of her life, she wasn’t about to let this one defeat her now, in the last moments of freedom she had left. He pushed against her to make her falter, and he had to wrap both arms around her even to maintain his hold.

He’d called her a tree so a tree she would be, standing tall and stiff and immovable. He glared at her for a moment, though she could still detect no anger in his eyes. It was a strange sequence of seconds, where they both tried to make the other give up, and she considered that she’d never been in the circle of a man’s arms that way and that, judging by the absence of a sneer, he didn’t seem to be repulsed by the sight of her face so close and the scent of her skin sans perfume, and that she didn’t really know what he was thinking. It rushed upon her all at once that she had to get away from him.

She relaxed completely despite his hold on her arm, waiting for that split second when he let his guard down. It didn’t take long, and the instant his stupid grin began to form on his smooth lips, she elbowed him right in the gut so hard he nearly fell into the fireplace.

“Get out of my room!” she demanded, her body coiled in case he persisted in his idiocy.

He brushed imaginary dust off himself and stood tall. “Or, I could stay.”

“Apart from the fact that you’re terrible and I would never allow it, it would be highly inappropriate. I already shouldn’t be alone in here with you.”

“I’m always highly inappropriate.” He took a step closer and then another as her muscles grew more rigid. “Besides, who would object?”

“ _I_ object! And my father, and my…my fiancé.” Really, why _was_ she spitting out so much to this obnoxious man?

He stopped moving. “Fiancé? Really?”

That was it, she’d had it. Her fingernails bit into her palms as she struggled to bury the sudden moisture pressuring the corners of her eyes. It was the anger, obviously. “Does that shock you? That someone like me could be engaged?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not—”

“Of course it was. You’d never understand, and if you’re not going to leave, then I am.”

Brienne was nearly as frustrated with herself and her inability to be rid of this _Jaime_ as she was at him. She just wanted to give up and hide somewhere dark and isolated. She yanked a blanket free of the tangled bed linens and wrapped it around her shoulders, moving to the door and opening it with far too much force.

“What are you going to do?” He laughed at her back. “Curl up in the lobby with those long legs of yours hanging over the arm of a divan?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Shocking though it may be, I know people. I’ll stay with Miss Frey down the hall.”

He almost looked disappointed. “Are you quite sure? Your bed is _very_ large…”

She scowled. “When I get my things in the morning, I expect you to be gone, and if you take anything from me, I will hunt you down and murder you in your sleep.”

He grinned. He was about to say something annoying, she knew, so she slammed the door behind her and sucked in a calming breath. Of course, clarity meant she had to face her insane decision to leave her own room. There was no way she’d go back in, either. It would be far too humiliating.

Surely she couldn’t really bother Miss Frey. There _was_ the lobby, but that would be nearly as bad, spending the rest of the night out in the open as if she’d been booted from someone’s company to be relegated to public speculation. And _Jaime_ would probably come down with the sunrise just to mock her. She could plead with Mr. Snow for another room, even though she’d heard the Lodge was full. Miss Frey did seem to be a nice sort of person…

She walked quietly in her cold, bare feet two doors down, to Miss Frey’s room, knocking very lightly.

It took only a minute for Miss Frey to appear, and it was clear she hadn’t yet fallen asleep. “Hello, dear, whatever it was matter?”

Brienne sighed. Everything was the matter. She was so angry her stomach hurt, and she wanted to cry like a sad little child. “I…do you have an extra bed, or a divan? That horrible man has taken my room.”

Brienne half-expected Miss Frey to march right over and deal with Jaime herself. Maybe that’s even what she had wanted, but no. The woman turned completely placid and simply took a step back. “I have another bed, dear. You are quite welcome to it.”

So Brienne entered Miss Frey’s room where she fully expected to toss and turn and contemplate the horror of her impending nuptials. Instead, she fell asleep in minutes as Miss Frey tucked a warm blanket around her freezing feet.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“I say, that’s a fetching jacket!” A shrill voice managed to pierce the cacophony of the train platform. It belonged to a lanky young man with perfectly-slicked tawny hair.

“Isn’t it though? I so wanted you to notice.” The young man’s slightly older companion tugged the ends of the _fetching_ article and pulled his shoulders back.

Brienne wanted to think of them as simply _the cricket aficionados_ because of their continued chatter about the game, or preferably, not think of them at all. But sooner or later, the older man would surely recognize her. He was none other than Renly Baratheon who had spent several weeks at her father’s estate on Tarth when his Prime Minister brother had wanted to implement a new ferry system in County Stormlands.

Renly Baratheon had been the only one to dance with her. The only one to refrain from painful mockery. She’d been fourteen, and from that day, she’d wanted to work in the big city, as an aide for Renly or as anything else he might require. But no, she’d stayed on Tarth to help her father and ended up affianced to a man she loathed. She should have run away, but she banished the idea as she always did, the moment it made an appearance. She could never do that to her father.

She stepped closer to the ticket office, though there would be no hiding on such an open, uncovered platform, not with her height.

“Do you already have your ticket?” Miss Frey’s kindly voice shattered Brienne’s reverie.

“Oh, yes, I do.” Brienne twisted to face the woman fully and realizing she hadn’t truly acknowledged the woman’s kindness. “Thank you so much for your hospitality at the inn.”

“Of course. Think nothing of it.” Miss Frey patted Brienne’s arm and smiled. “Have you seen that peculiar fellow again?”

Brienne shook her head. Jaime had been gone from her room when she’d collected her things. She would have thought that he’d refrained from disturbing anything if not for the hastily scrawled note left on a piece of Lodge stationary, smack in the middle of her nicely-made bed.

_I took precisely one handkerchief._  
It smells of a crisp sea-wind and despair,   
which I shall call Eau de Wench.

She’d crumpled the note and shoved it in her coat pocket. If he ended up on her train to King’s Landing, she’d light it on fire in front of his face.

“Are you all right?” Miss Frey asked.

“Oh, yes of course. I’m probably just hungry since I missed breakfast.”

“Will you join me in the dining car once we’re aboard? I should like some company, I think.”

Brienne felt almost warm from Miss Frey’s kind attention, and she found herself nodding eagerly. She was so used to sitting alone it would be quite novel to make conversation over a nice meal.

Miss Frey patted her arm again and glanced around the platform. The train’s whistle finally sounded from some distance away, and Miss Frey oddly jumped and spun around to face the wall, hastily digging a train schedule from her own pocket and obviously pretending to scan it. Brienne knew the motion well enough from her own many endeavors to avoid people.

“Did you see someone you know?” she asked very quietly.

Miss Frey looked startled in profile, though she didn’t meet Brienne’s eyes. “Oh…yes. Just someone to whom I have no wish to speak.”

“I understand.” Brienne turned her large body to block Miss Frey from general view, scanning the crowd to see if she could guess who Miss Frey wanted to avoid.

The platform was filled with Lodge guests for the most part, but there were plenty of locals and even exhausted hikers and snow-covered Night’s Watchmen on their home from duty.

The papers were so full of the threat of spies that every face could look suspicious. Brienne chuckled under her breath. Even if the rumours were true and war would break out, there would be no spies in Queenscrown, so far North with nothing but holiday-goers and loggers wandering about.

The train came in and crawled to a halt as steam hissed and blocked the sun in favor of muggy fog. Renly and his cricket chum hopped aboard, and a septa with a white head covering and a doctor in a crisp white coat oversaw several orderlies load a heavily bandaged patient on a stretcher.

Then she spotted _his_ smug face. He was looking straight at her, and as soon as she caught his eye, he raised one hand and waved, then pointed to his breast pocket where the top of a carefully folded blue handkerchief rested. _Her_ handkerchief. He grinned more widely than ever and leapt into a car with a graceful flourish. Damn the man and his chiseled jaw.

She spun back to Miss Frey. “Do you see whoever you wanted to avoid? We can board now, too.”

Miss Frey glanced up, taking in the thinning crowd before abruptly stepping forward. An odd grating sound came from somewhere above Brienne’s head, and before she could look up, something struck her. Her simple felt hat did nothing to buffer the impact, and she immediately reached up to press her palm against the burgeoning knot on her skull.

“My dear, are you all right?” Miss Frey was next to her once more, clutching her free hand and peering up with genuine concern.

“Fine, I think,” Brienne mumbled, but the knot was growing larger and her skull more tender. She felt suddenly dizzy.

Miss Frey bent to pick up a piece of baked clay. “A flower pot! Imagine that. How careless to let it fall.” She chided loudly, but there was something odd in her voice.

Brienne couldn’t tell what it might be. Little white stars were popping in the corners of her eyes. The train whistle sounded.

“Can you walk?” Miss Frey asked. “The train is leaving.”

“Of course.” But Brienne’s legs wobbled as she stepped forward.

Miss Frey tried to support her with an elbow, though Brienne’s size made it nearly impossible. Somehow, they made it to the nearest train car where Miss Frey stepped up and recruited a porter to help Brienne inside. She braced herself against the polished wood paneling, so dizzy now she was nauseous. Miss Frey turned into twins, then triplets, weaving back and forth like a musical trio.

“Miss Tarth? Miss Tarth, are you…”

Miss Frey’s voice echoed in her head, but Brienne could only feel herself sinking to the carpeted floor, and everything went black.

* * *

 

Brienne’s eyes flickered open, amorphous colored shapes taking the form of people framed by the warm wood and tapestry cushions of a train car. Miss Frey’s kindly eyes blinked down at her.

The other occupants glared from their seats. Brienne collected herself enough to realize that she was sprawled across the car enough to cramp it, and she summoned the strength to sit upright with her head supported by the corner nearest the door. Across from her was an unkempt young woman holding a fidgety baby. The woman seemed the sort to think everything was none of her business but who would judge it just the same. Another woman was across from Miss Frey, this one very, very old and sun-wizened. Her glare had not faltered for an instant. The last occupant was a man wearing a posh fedora and reading a newspaper. He was bland, nondescript apart from strange, darkly-stained lips, but he glanced from his inky paper every few seconds to appraise Brienne’s face.

“How are you feeling?” Miss Frey interrupted the silence.

Brienne’s vision seemed to be adjusting, no longer blurry. She nodded at Miss Frey and immediately regretted it, for the motion made the knot on her head ache deep into her skull.

“The doctor believes you may have a concussion, dear. It’s best to rest, and I’ll look out for you.” Miss Frey stood and clutched her handbag. “I’m going to the dining car to order tea for us. It’ll fix you right as rain, I’m sure of it.”

Brienne swallowed thickly from her remaining haze and carefully stood to join Miss Frey. “I’ll come with you. It will do me good to…” She merely gestured around the car.

Miss Frey seemed to understand that the constant inspection of the occupants would allow Brienne no rest. She nodded. “As long as you promise not to fall again.”

There was no guarantee, but Brienne smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

She kept one hand extended, brushing the paneling in readiness to steady herself, but she felt better and better every minute. They passed through five or six cars before reaching their destination, and Brienne welcomed the sight of plush chairs and the smell of hot food.

Miss Frey chose a sunny table next to a window, with only two chairs so the attendant wouldn’t seat others with them. Brienne always hated that. She scanned the menu for something tasty and settled on the full breakfast to make up for her lost meal earlier.

“At least you’ve kept your appetite. That’s a good sign.” Miss Frey nodded once Brienne had ordered before turning to the attendant and handing him a packet she’d withdrawn from her handbag. “Tea and cake, please. And use this tea. I cannot tolerate the bland type on these trains.”

It was clearly a demand, but Miss Frey’s warm smile made it seem a simple request. The attendant merely nodded and took Miss Frey’s tea along with him.

“You see,” Miss Frey withdrew another tea packet, “this provides a far superior brew. It’s my own blend, made for me in King’s Landing. Do you enjoy tea, dear?”

Brienne felt that betraying her preference for a good strong coffee would somehow be a disservice to this woman who had been so kind to her. “Yes, I do.”

“Excellent! You must visit Mr. Mott’s shop and have your own blend made. It’s Mott’s Pots, isn’t that amusing? Just on the bank of the Blackwater next to the antique shops.” Miss Frey held out the packet toward Brienne. “Take this one, please. The label is so quaint, I think. All knights and armor.”

“Thank you, really. I’ll be sure to visit the shop.” Brienne scanned the packet and placed it in the pocket of her ski trousers with care. She knew it had been frivolous to wear them on her return journey, but she’d be confined to skirts soon enough.

The attendant returned with Brienne’s several plates and Miss Frey’s large pot of tea and delicate yellow cake. They tucked in, or rather Brienne tucked in. The tea really was very good, and she found herself washing down her food with cup after cup while Miss Frey sipped at a more delicate pace.

A tunnel abruptly obscured the sun from view, and Miss Frey smiled as she looked at the blackness outside. “When I was a girl and traveled with my mother, she would always draw our initials on the train window when the steam rushed by.”

Brienne looked up from her meal. She had no such tales to share. “I’ve never noticed the steam that way.”

Miss Frey glanced at her. “Just wait, it’ll only be a moment.”

Indeed, a few seconds later the steam from the front of the train rushed through the tunnel and fogged the windows. Miss Frey raised her hand and used a finger to draw a line, then hesitated as if thinking of her design. She rushed on all at once and drew _Frey_. The outline was sharp and clear against the steamy windowpane.

“There. I’ve left my mark.” Miss Frey nodded to herself with apparent amusement.

“I’ll have to do it next time,” Brienne commented, stacking her plates as she finished her meal.

The train pushed through the tunnel, and the sun melted all the steam away. Miss Frey’s mark was no more.

“As ephemeral as life itself, I’m afraid.” Her expression was wistful.

Brienne had a strange urge to ask the older woman about Hyle and her father, to ask if she would truly be a horrible breaker of promises if she simply vanished and left her fiancé at the altar. She wanted to, but she knew she couldn’t. And she was so tired now. Her head throbbed, but the fatigue that rushed through her blood was much worse.

“You’ve gone pale,” Miss Frey remarked with her earlier tone of concern.

“I’m not as well as I’d hoped,” Brienne managed, afraid she might actually fall asleep with her face on a porcelain plate.

Miss Frey rose. “Let’s get you back to our car, and I’m fetching that doctor. You’re very lucky there’s one on board.”

She helped Brienne to her feet, and they felt like lead, dragging as it took all Brienne’s willpower to step forward again and again. She might be truly injured. Didn’t they say that falling asleep with a concussion was a bad sign? Odd though, this didn’t feel like it had before when she’d gone unconscious. That had been a plummeting feeling as if all the blood in her body pooled in her gut and dragged her to the floor. This was more a blanket of exhaustion she could barely fend off. An all-over sort of thing, like a drug.

She collapsed into her seat in the car, ignoring the continued glares of the occupants and the squeals of the bouncing baby. Miss Frey said something about the doctor again, but Brienne couldn’t fight it any longer. Her eyes closed, and she was gone.

* * *

 

 

The second time Brienne awoke, there were no glares to judge her and no Miss Frey to comfort her. She blinked and stretched her sore neck, noticing from the window that the sun was high in the sky. It was after midday. She must have slept for hours.

The woman across from her was asleep, and mercifully so was her baby. The ancient woman was occupied with knitting some hideous chunky thing, while the fedora’d man was now completing a crossword.

Brienne glanced to her left to see Miss Frey, or rather, where Miss Frey should have been. Instead, there was a different woman entirely. Brienne sat up straighter and blinked hard just to make sure her eyes hadn’t gone off or her concussion hadn’t made her see things. But no, the woman occupying Miss Frey’s seat did indeed look so like her that Brienne thought they could be sisters. This woman wore a simple charcoal dress like Miss Frey had. Her gray hair was coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck while a demure black hat was pinned on top. Both like Miss Frey. The woman seemed to be about the same height and build, though Brienne almost flushed when she considered how this woman’s chest was not nearly so…ample.

And there was her face. This woman’s was severe where Miss Frey’s has been kind. These eyes were steely and cold where Miss Frey’s had been full of humor and warmth. What was this strange joke?

“Where is Miss Frey?” Brienne’s mouth felt dry and full of gravel as she ground the words out like an accusation.

The false woman glanced at her for a moment before returning to her steady position of blandness.

“This isn’t your car,” Brienne said to the doppelganger. “Where is the woman who was here before?”

The woman looked angry as her lips twisted. She remained silent as she withdrew a ticket from her pocket, pointing to the visible numbers for car and compartment and seat. All were in order. This must have been Miss Frey’s ticket, taken from her.

Brienne reached out to grab the paper, but the woman snatched it away and glared.

“Where is Miss Frey?” Brienne nearly shouted.

The baby woke up, howling like a direwolf of old as the young mother scowled fiercely. “See what ya done? Who wakes a baby, I ask ya?”

Brienne ignored her complaint, leaning forward instead. “Did you see the woman I was with earlier? She took care of me when I fainted. When did she leave?”

The mother’s eyes flashed, and Brienne couldn’t read her face. “I dunno what yer talkin’ about.” She focused all her attention on her baby, cooing to it and settling it against her chest.

Brienne tried the old woman and only got a muttered set of foreign words. Something from Essos. The man was hardly better.

“I think you’ve made quite enough scenes for one day, _miss_.” He glared hard enough to melt a weaker person.

Brienne felt all the anger from the previous night seep back inside, but it was for an entirely different reason now. She loomed over Miss Frey’s imposter. “Answer me. Where is Miss Frey and why do you have her ticket?”

The woman finally spoke, but it was in Lysian, a delicate but prominent accent, and Brienne recognized enough to know she was being cursed at.

She masked how wobbly she felt as she stood to her full height. “Fine then, I’ll have you thrown off this train. Miss Frey is here somewhere, and I’m going to find her.”

Brienne wanted to storm off at a gallop, but she still had to lean occasionally against the wall as she weaved through the car, looking for an attendant or even a lurking porter. Two cars further on, she finally spotted a man in a black waistcoat, probably someone from the dining car.

“Excuse me? Sir?” Brienne steadied herself and finally found that her legs were working almost properly.

“How can I help, Miss?” The attendant’s expression was set into a pleasant yet aloof arrangement.

“Someone in my compartment has taken a ticket from another woman in my compartment.” Brienne cringed at her thin excuse of a complaint.

The attendant frowned right on queue. “Pardon me, but are you saying someone has lost her ticket? We have a record of all passengers, so it won’t be problematic.”

“No, no, there’s a woman who claims to be in the right compartment, but she has another woman’s ticket.”

The attendant stared at her with one eyebrow raised.

Brienne let her hands gesture as wildly as they wanted. “The woman, Miss Frey, was with me in my compartment. I met her last night. She boarded with me this morning. I fell unconscious, and she helped me to my seat. We had tea in the dining car, and I wasn’t feeling well so I returned to my seat while she went for the doctor. I woke up just now, and Miss Frey is gone and some other woman is in her seat and has her ticket. Do you understand?”

The attendant nodded, but Brienne could tell it was only an appeasement. “Of course, Miss. Let me fetch the ticket master. Wait here, please.”

So Brienne waited in the passage, peering out the window at rapidly vanishing Northern trees. Soon, an older man in a heavy black uniform and thick moustache approached with the attendant from before.

“It seems there’s some confusion,” he said in a business-like tone.

Brienne repeated her story, slower and more collected this time.

“Why don’t I check this woman’s ticket. Perhaps your Miss Frey is sitting elsewhere and merely remained with you while you were unwell?”

Brienne hated that she hadn’t thought of that. But why was the imposter dressed so similarly to Miss Frey then? At least she could see the woman’s identification when the attendant checked.

“Yes, all right.”

The attendant nodded pleasantly before striding off somewhere, so she followed the ticket master back down the passage with stronger legs and a more determined mind.

When they arrived and the man requested to see the false woman’s ticket, she glared more than she had at Brienne.

“Excuse me?” she parried in her smooth Lysian accent.

“Madam, might I just have a look at your ticket, please?” the ticket master repeated with a pleasant but almost conspiratorial smile, as if he were trying to tell her silently that a little compliance would get Brienne off her back.

The woman handed over her paper, taken from Miss Frey Brienne was certain.

“And your identification?”

Brienne crept closer to the ticket master, using the advantage of her height to see over his shoulder. All her certainty evaporated just like the steam from the train. The woman’s identification showed her photograph, looking just as she did now with the same hat, her date and place of birth – Lys – and her county of residence, the Crownlands. And her name. Unella Frey.

The ticket master cross-referenced his passenger list, but Brienne knew it was pointless. Something was terribly wrong.

“I’m so sorry for the disruption, Miss Frey. Please accept this voucher for a meal in the dining car as an apology.” The ticket master handed back the woman’s documents as well as a small red card.

“It’s no problem,” the woman muttered, though it clearly had been.

Brienne couldn’t keep silent. “This…she isn’t the Miss Frey who’s meant to be here.”

The ticket master took his turn to glare then. “All checks out, Miss…Tarth, according to my list. Is that correct?” He almost seemed to dare her to be somebody else as well.

“Yes, yes, Brienne Tarth, but this isn’t _my_ Miss Frey.”

“Then whose Miss Frey is she?” The ticket taker had lost all patience and began motioning for Brienne to let him out the compartment door.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. There’s something wrong here, don’t you understand?” Brienne didn’t budge.

“What I understand, Miss Tarth, is that you’ve been unwell and asleep and have convinced yourself that the woman next to you in your own compartment should be someone else. Perhaps you dreamed it, or perhaps someone else helped you and you’ve confused the name. This woman,” he pointed to the imposter, “is Miss Frey and has her rightful ticket for this seat, in this compartment.”

Brienne wanted to scream. “She’s not _the_ Miss Frey! I know it.”

“Then there are two! Frey is the most common name in Westeros.”

She didn’t know what to say, and there seemed to be no convincing him, so she just muttered, “She’s not from Westeros.”

The ticket master sighed deeply, turning to the imposter once more. “Miss Frey, did you assist this woman onto the train this morning? Was she unwell?”

The imposter looked at the ticket master for a moment before turning her sharp gaze to Brienne. Their eyes met for some time before a tiny smile appeared on the woman’s lips. She nodded. “Yes. She fainted. I’m quite sure she’s imagining things and may require medical attention.”

Brienne started shaking her head. No, no, no, this wasn’t right. The woman was lying through her teeth, but why? There was nothing else she could even say. The woman was painting her as a lunatic.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you anymore.” The ticket master pushed past, knocking Brienne’s shoulder into the doorframe, briefly glancing back. “There is a doctor on board, Doctor Qyburn. I strongly suggest consulting him.”

Brienne sank into her seat. She hated admitting it, but there was a tiny sliver of her mind that wondered, just for a fleeting second, whether she really were imagining or even hallucinating. She _had_ been knocked on the head after all. Her fingers reached up to brush through her hair, gently feeling the tender knot. No, she wasn’t imagining anything. She had been shielding Miss Frey from whomever the woman had wanted to avoid, and Miss Frey had been _right there_ before and after the flowerpot incident.

Maybe that was it, Miss Frey had been taken or…just taken somewhere by the person she’d been hiding her face from. There had to be something in that. The train hadn’t stopped since its departure in Queenscrown, and surely someone couldn’t toss a woman off a train without notice. Miss Frey had to be on the train, somewhere. She had to search, but she certainly wouldn’t be allowed without the cooperation of the ticket master, or even a lowly porter if she could convince one.

The dining car. Surely the attendant who had served them would remember Miss Frey and would know the sneering imposter wasn’t the genuine article. Brienne didn’t look at anyone as she darted out of the compartment again, this time with a clear direction.

She scanned every face she saw on the way, peered into every compartment window that hadn’t yet had its shades drawn. No Miss Frey. The dining car was full to the brim now for lunch, and she stood in the door trying to spot the familiar attendant. A different man approached.

“The wait for lunch will be fifteen minutes, madam. I can reserve a place for you—”

“No, no, I’m looking for someone. An attendant who served earlier. I…I need to ask him something.” Brienne continued searching.

“Madam, I’m afraid the staff are all quite busy at the moment, and the car is very full. If you would just reserve your place—”

There, at the rear – or was it front? – of the car was the attendant she wanted. He stood tall as he took an order, and she ignored his sputtering compatriot as she plowed through the car, dodging elbows and bodies. She’d made it halfway when she was blocked by a cart of drinks, and a regrettably familiar voice sounded.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Legs. Or Blue Eyes. Or Wench. Yes, I like Wench.” _He_ lounged back in his seat and grinned up at her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank as always to Mikki for beta-ing!
> 
> The bit about Frey being the most common name in Westeros came from another fic. I don't remember which though! If anyone can recall, I will definitely give due credit.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Brienne allowed herself to glance down. She towered over Jaime, but his smirk managed to make her feel small, and she was feeling small enough already. She’d always wanted to be small, but not like this.

The drinks cart had not moved. She thought it was likely intentional, to keep her from disrupting the dining car even more, and she felt the snide, appraising glances of the seated passengers. The first attendant had crept up behind her.

“Madam, please, you must make a reservation to secure a seat. Otherwise, I must insist you return to your car.” The little man had lost all patience, his lips twisted into a hint of a sneer.

“You’re an impertinent fellow, aren’t you?” _His_ voice filled the space around them completely. “She has a seat right here with me.”

The attendant was clearly feeling self-important. “Sir, your reservation was for one.”

Jaime Whoever-He-Was eased his chair back just an inch or two and gracefully unfolded himself to stand tall. Her handkerchief was still tucked into his breast pocket. Brienne was stuck in the aisle with the attendant behind her and the drinks cart in front, but it was Jaime who seemed to take up the most space. She watched from the corner of her eye as he glared at the attendant.

“I clearly remember making a reservation for two.” Jaime smirked and withdrew several bills from his pocket, handing them over to the attendant like a spy passing a secret message.

Brienne glanced behind her.

The attendant peered at the bills resting inconspicuously on his palm. “I was mistaken, Sir. The table is yours.”

“Excellent!” Jaime stood in place, looking expectantly at her.

She had no intention of sitting with him or further prolonging her task of speaking with the morning attendant, but the man had disappeared, and the cart still blocked the aisle. She wasn’t feeling terribly well if she were honest. Beyond her unease about Miss Frey – and whether Miss Frey actually existed – she might still have a concussion. Her shoulders felt weighted down by bad luck and confusion. What if she were wrong about everything? She could get thrown off the train for causing a disturbance if she chased down an innocent employee.

She sat heavily in the chair across from Jaime and let her body sink into itself.

The current attendant set a menu in front of her as Jaime sat down. She rested her forehead on her palms with her elbows on the table. She knew they were both looking at her, and she just didn’t care.

“She’ll have the venison stew, and a cider, and bread, and whatever cake you have. And another cider for me. Quick as you can.” Jaime’s voice was smooth and pleasant, but left no room for argument.

The attendant darted away.

“I don’t want any of that. I’m not staying. And I can order for myself,” she muttered.

“It _is_ what you want, you really look like you need to eat, and the only other choice is a salmon soufflé. It’s exactly what you would have ordered.” He chuckled as she heard him finish off his first cider in preparation for the second.

She had no desire to tell him he was right, except perhaps for the cider, so she remained silent. She felt more than heard him lean forward over the table.

His voice was much more serious this time. “Now tell me, wench, why you’ve gone pale as porcelain and looked likely to collapse in the middle of the car if you’d stood for a moment longer. You’re not the frail type.”

She wasn’t certain why this made her instantly angry. She sat up straight and planted her palms flat on the table. “What _type_ am I then?”

He smirked and let his gaze roam over her. “Strong. Bullheaded. Needlessly prickly.”

She wanted to form pretty words of rebuttal, but there was no energy left to fight him. He wasn’t wrong, if she told herself the truth. But her head hurt so much…

She let it fall into her palms once more and sighed deeply.

His tone changed instantly, stripped of humour and arrogance. “You’re really unwell, aren’t you?”

She shook her head, but that hurt, too.

“Yes, you are. What’s wrong?”

She felt him pry one of her hands from her face, his fingertips rough with calluses from playing his instruments.

She looked up to see his green eyes fixed on her face. He wasn’t cringing away, and he wasn’t mocking her.

“A flowerpot fell on my head,” she murmured.

Silence, and then a loud chuckle rang across the table. “That’s a pointless way to be injured. Though it wouldn’t have far to drop with your height.”

She didn’t bother to glare since she knew it would have no effect. “Even flowerpots know I’m an easy target.” She hadn’t meant to sound so defeated, but it was too late to correct her tone.

He was back to seriousness, his shifts so abrupt she couldn’t keep up. “It must have been at the station after I boarded. You seemed well enough before.”

“Yes. I was…” she paused, unwilling to say _with_ _Miss Frey_ when there was so much confusion. “I was waiting to board.”

“That was quite some time ago.” He tugged on her chin again until she looked at him, seeming to examine her eyes for some sign of illness. “If you’re still so off kilter, you might have a concussion.”

Did everyone think her stupid as well as ugly? She did glare this time and leaned as far back in her seat as possible. “Why thank you, I haven’t considered that most obvious consequence, being so thick in the head already.”

He flashed a wicked little smile, just the corner of his lips twisting up toward his gleaming eyes. “Remember how I said you were prickly?”

The attendant appeared, bearing her meal on white china. She didn’t want to admit how good the stew smelled as its silver cover was lifted away.

“Go on, eat.” He leaned a little in her direction. “You know you want to.”

She sighed wearily and brought a spoonful of hearty stew to her lips. It tasted like the forest, green and piney, and far better than expected. “A little might do me good.”

He watched her silently as she finished the bowl, and then the bread and the cake. The cider burned her throat as it washed her meal away.

“Better?” he finally asked.

She met his gaze, and he still seemed to examine her in that strange way. “I think so.”

“Good. I was afraid I’d have to pull the emergency stop and drag you off the train to find a doctor.”

She glanced around the car as she had been doing while she ate, trying to spot the morning attendant. “There’s a doctor on board. I was told he already examined me.”

“You don’t remember? That’s not a good sign.”

She looked back at him, trying to appear composed and in control though she felt anything but. “I…passed out. Just after I boarded. I woke up in my compartment after the doctor had gone.”

He seemed to contemplate her tale for a moment, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other in an easy gesture that she knew was purposeful, though she couldn’t fathom why.

“So wench, what are you leaving out?”

She focused on his eyes. “My name is Brienne.”

“Brienne of what family?” He folded his fingers into a pyramid shape, resting on his knee.

“What?”

“Come now…I can smell your blue blood no matter how hard you’ve tried to cover it in cheap cotton.” He grinned.

The muscles along her spine twitched in anger. She was offended for herself and her cheap cotton. So what if her blouse was from Baelish’s, the _common_ department store. It was practical and fit well and was a clean, crisp white.

“It’s the way you speak, you know,” he went on, unfolding his fingers to take a swig of cider, still grinning all the while. “Educated. _Blue_. If you want to fly under the radar, you should work on that.”

Something clicked in her cloudy mind. “You might think of taking your own advice.”

His brow rose for a moment, and then he laughed. “One point to you, wench.”

Her jaw clenched as she growled through gritted teeth. “Brienne.”

He nearly whispered, leaning closer to her than before. “Of what family?”

She lowered her lids to block out his smirking image for one cleansing moment, and she gave in. “Tarth.”

“You _are_ blue, as much as your eyes. Lady Brienne Tarth of that distant little island. I think I passed it once, on a boat.”

“And you? Of what family are you since you seem to know so much?”

His smirk became forced. It didn’t waver, but she watched as the intent behind it change from mirth to mask. His eyes clouded, too. “Tell you later.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You won’t like my answer.”

“I won’t care about your answer.”

He retreated further back. “Do you read the society pages? I think you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’ll tell you later.” He sighed just a little. “Call me Jaime.”

She matched his sigh. “Fine.”

“Now, tell me what you’ve left out. You keep looking everywhere as if someone’s chasing you.” It was a clear demand, but his eyes adopted some of his prior concern as they fixed on her.

She might as well as tell him about Miss Frey if she wanted to be rid of him in order to pursue the morning attendant. He’d make some excuse and disappear the moment she was done with her tall tale, and she’d be lucky to escape further scorn. At least the stew had been good.

So she talked in a near-whisper, telling him about the station platform and shielding Miss Frey, then the flowerpot, and Miss Frey helping her after she passed out. She told of waking up in the compartment surrounded by strangers, about Miss Frey taking her to breakfast and sitting at that table just across the car. About feeling so unwell for the second time and waking up for the second time, and finally about the false woman who claimed to have helped her. And she may have taken a few more sips of cider and spoken about Miss Frey being a potential figment, though she wasn’t certain.

By the end, his brow was furrowed, he wore no smirk, and he had a bit of a sneer just starting to form at the corner of his mouth. She steeled herself for the scorn.

“Well that’s ridiculous. Of course Miss Frey isn’t a figment of your imagination.”

She felt her eyes going wide. “What?”

He looked at her as if she’d sprouted another head. “You spoke of her last night when we danced around one another in your room. Before the great flowerpot incident.” He tapped his skull with one long finger.

His tone was so matter-of-fact that she knew he wasn’t humoring her. She remembered, too, as the fog in her brain continued to dissipate, the weight of her worry lifting from her shoulders. She wasn’t confused, she wasn’t imagining things. She smiled, not at him but to herself as she watched his eyes widen almost to match hers.

“I wouldn’t have called that dancing.” She didn’t know what else to say, and she didn’t care.

He shrugged. “Dancing, you trying to pommel me. It’s all the same. _Physical_.” The grin returned as he waved his hand back and forth.

She almost didn’t want to admit that he was proving useful. If she could have him repeat his assertion to the ticket master, perhaps she would finally be believed and could search for Miss Frey.

“Say it again, please. About Miss Frey?”

“I admittedly barged into your room. Come to think of it, that wasn’t my best plan, but it was a real lark, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. And then you pushed me around, and that was interesting. You went prude on me and proclaimed you would abandon your own room and my significant charms in favor of lodging with some old biddy called Miss Frey down the hall. You left me bereft of company.” He twisted his lips into a childish pout.

“You stole my handkerchief.”

“Now _that_ was a good plan.” He pulled it from his pocket and stared straight at her as he lifted it to his nose, audibly sniffing the plain cotton square.

The now-simpering attendant returned. “Would you care for some tea?”

Brienne slowly twisted to peer at the man, a deep sense of satisfaction burning through her. “Tea!”

The attendant’s brow rose. “Yes, tea.”

She looked back at Jaime. “Miss Frey carries her own tea. She gave a packet to the attendant this morning. I _must_ find him. Surely he’ll remember.”

Jaime, still holding her handkerchief, peered up at the attendant. “Where does your kind go off to when not on duty?”

Brienne suppressed rolling her eyes as his clearly _blue_ manner of inquiry. _Idiot._

The attendant shuffled back and forth, lips pursed.

Jaime sighed and withdrew a few more bills from his pocketbook.

The attendant smiled. “There’s a staff car, near the rear of the train before cargo and baggage.”

“Excellent.” Jaime smiled at the man, but it was dismissive rather than friendly. He replaced the handkerchief in his breast pocket and rose to his feet, holding out one hand. “I suppose we’ll have to find the allusive attendant then. I’m sure he’ll recall an elderly matriarch with her own brand of tea, despite the common name.”

Brienne nearly struck her head on the hanging lamp over the table as she stood. Another blow could worsen a concussion if she had one, but it might be worth the risk if she could forget about Jaime. She ignored the swinging lamp and stuffed her hand in her pocket. Her smile was triumphant as she held out a small yellow packet with a distinctive design. “She gave me this. It’s proof.”

“I already told you I believe you. And you don’t need proof, you’re a blueblood. That’s sort of the point.” Jaime stepped into the aisle and gripped her elbow as if preemptively preventing her from stumbling.

She’d shake it off, but there was no room to maneuver. She kept the tea packet clutched in her palm, only to realize that Jaime seemed to have no intention of remaining at the table or disappearing back to his compartment.

She peered back at him. “You’re coming with me?”

His brows drew together over his snide green gaze. “Obviously. Despite being right about Miss Frey, you may well have a concussion and shouldn’t be alone. Besides, I’m extraordinarily bored.”

She froze, the muscles of her arm bunching beneath his long fingers. That was a new one she could add to her roster, _Brienne, Easer of Ennui._ Provider of temporary larks. She could feel the intensity of her scowl in the hollows of her cheeks, spinning around to march through the dining car with clipped steps. His grip didn’t ease despite her attempts to shake him off.

“Bollocks,” he muttered from behind her as he caught up. “You are a difficult beast, aren’t you?”

“Right now, this _beast_ would rather tear your arm off than provide entertainment for your smarmy arse.” She continued marching, entering the club car where men lounged in leather chairs with tumblers of brandy and rich cigars balanced between their fingers.

There was only one other woman present, and she was the sort whose sleek waves had been dyed a violent red. Her dress was cut rather low. Brienne caught her looking in Jaime’s direction, the woman’s crimson lips wrapping indecently around a cigar.

Brienne’s foot caught on the leg of a chair, and she stumbled.

“Whoa there,” Jaime warned, his arm folding around her thick waist to keep her upright. She could feel the heat of his body radiating through her clothes, and his breath on the back of her neck.

She twisted in his grasp and glared, trying to suppress her blush at the closeness of his face. “I’m not a horse!”

He grinned. The grin faded as he stared. The train lurched over a rough crossing. The crimson woman’s cigar popped right out of her mouth to singe the carpet, the men’s tumblers spilt amber liquid onto their laps, and Jaime toppled right into the chair that had caused Brienne to trip.

And his arm was still fixed around her. She fell with all her weight right onto his lap, her gangly limbs splayed over the chair’s arms, and his face buried against her Baelish’s Department Store white cotton blouse.

She squirmed, trying to rearrange her legs in order to stand, but Jaime tightened his grip.

“Stop,” he muttered, his breath floating over the exposed skin above her collar. “Just stop.”

Somewhere behind her, the smoking woman laughed like a tinkling bell with a razor sharp edge. “Poor man.”

Brienne froze. She willed herself not to look at the other woman, instead letting her lids fall shut for a moment of clarity. She scrambled to her feet, leaving Jaime sprawled in the club chair with his long legs askew. The door at the end of the car seemed a mile away, and she marched toward it with purpose.

“Wait!” Jaime called amidst the sounds of squeaking leather and crushed carpet. “Brienne!”

This was why she stayed away from people. As if it were _her_ fault that she tripped when the entire train was moving. As if she could change her height or the way her body lurched like a felled tree.

She pushed through the door into the next passage between cars, and the grip on her elbow returned. “Dog’s bollocks, Brienne, slow down. Your head—”

“I feel fine.” She felt nauseous.

“Do you?” Jaime yanked her to a halt with very little trouble.

She was reminded of his strength from the night before, but no less surprised by it. She peered at him with all the irritation she could muster. “What do you want?”

He seemed startled by the question, his gaze fixing on her face and his lips twisting downward. “Well, I know what I _don’t_ want, and that’s to see you faint because you’re too stubborn to recognize how unwell you may be.”

“I’m fine, and I need to find Miss Frey.” Her gut was screaming at her that something was wrong, that time was running out somehow.

Jaime sighed. “The train isn’t scheduled to stop until mid-morning. We’re in the middle of nothing up here, and no one is getting off anytime soon.” He cleared his throat. “I think Miss Frey would agree that your head should come first at the moment.”

She wanted to throttle him, but at the same time, it confused her that his concern seemed genuine. His boredom manifested in strange ways. “Fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll find that doctor, get a clean bill of health, and _then_ I look for Miss Frey.”

“Then _we_ look for Miss Frey.” Jaime nodded to himself in satisfaction, and with a sly glance, he moved into the next car in front of her.

She hated that she might actually need him, since no one on the train believed her about Miss Frey to begin with. Only Jaime. He could confirm her story because of the night before, and he did seem able to get things done quickly. Her boots were sturdy, built for trekking. She could easily kick him if he got too unruly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always and forever thanks to Mikki/ikkiM. The lap fall is for you ;-)
> 
> Chapter four will post after Appreciation Week is over, and there will be pistols and cricket players.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages. I'm aware. *sad face.*
> 
> I WILL finish stuff though!
> 
> Thanks always to Mikki/ikkiM for telling the fic muse to stop being such a bitch. And beta-ing. Mostly that.

 

 

Brienne stood in front of a compartment door in car seventeen, behind and a little to one side of Jaime. He knocked on the door.

There was a faint commotion from within, but no one responded. Jaime knocked again, this time with more authority.

It was the same sort of power that seemed to ooze from within as he’d asked one of the train’s ubiquitous attendants where he might find the doctor. If she hadn’t seen he was highborn before, she would certainly have felt it when he commanded attention so easily. Only a _very_ highborn son would behave that way so naturally.  

“Excellent chap,” Jaime had said as he’d patted the attendant on the back and had glanced over his shoulder at her.

The look in his eyes had been a dare, seeing if she would follow him without objection, and preparing a slew of retorts designed to trap her into compliance. Of course, she might very well _have_ a concussion. There wasn’t much point in denying it. She’d nodded.

“Good.” He’d smiled like a cat presented with a bowl of fresh cream.

As they waited for the doctor to answer, she kept her eyes fixed on the back of Jaime’s neck, that bit of tanned skin just above his collar and just under his carefully groomed golden hair. She stared at his neck only so she could tell exactly when he would twist around and begin to goad her again. After more commotion and no answer, he raised his fist and knocked for a third time.

The top of a grey-haired head appeared as the door slid open halfway. The man did not look up. “Just tea, please and thank—”

It was the shoes. The doctor saw their shoes and must have realized they were not attendants, and he skimmed along their heights very slowly, with wide eyes beneath small, round glasses. “Oh,” he mumbled. “How unusual.”

The doctor waited in silence as Jaime stared for an uncomfortable span, his expression entirely placid. But she could see the tension in his shoulders and further down, the flexing of his long fingers against his thigh. Jaime somehow conveyed, without words or action, a silent threat to pommel the poor doctor should he say anything objectionable. Brienne wished she could utilize such an impactful arsenal of tricks. Instead, she stood and stared in her usual awkward silence.

“Doctor Qyburn?” Jaime said at last.

“Ahem, uh, quite.” The doctor did not look at Brienne’s face, which was not unusual.

Jaime stepped closer to her. “Do you recall examining this _lady_ in the morning after a flowerpot fell on her head?”

Somehow, when Jaime said it, being struck by falling terracotta didn’t sound so ridiculous.

Finally, the doctor met her gaze, his features rearranging from bewilderment to abrupt recognition. “Why yes, of course! How are you feeling?”

She cleared her throat. “Better. I think.”

“You’re much better,” Jaime asserted, turning slightly into her. “But we must be certain. I worry about concussion, what with the obvious knot on your skull.”

The concern in his eyes seemed genuine. She was hesitant to believe it, but with the snide commentary he seemed to throw about so casually, she didn’t think he would hold back if he really wanted to insult or trick her. She wanted to at least try believing him.

And she knew that despite how painful her injury had become and that it felt as if a large melon were attached to the top of her head, the bump could not be seen beneath her mop of blonde hair. Jaime only knew about because she’d told him. He was playing at something she could not fathom.

She parted her lips to assure the doctor that Jaime was likely overreacting, but the doctor spoke first, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one bony finger.

“I did not think you were accompanied this morning as you seemed to be quite alone.”

Brienne bristled. The doctor’s tone wasn’t unpleasant or even critical, but it maintained that undercurrent of surprise whenever she failed to meet mediocre expectations. “I—”

“We were separated on the platform this morning. It was _insanity_ I tell you, and I was forced to hop into another car, therefore unable to help my _dear friend_ when she was injured.” Jaime grinned down at the doctor as if the whole thing were terribly amusing, and the way he’d said _friend_ certainly implied a status far less…wholesome.

She glared at him, trying to bore a hole in the side of his smooth cheek.

Oblivious, he continued. “I couldn’t even find her compartment! Imagine that. And I only learned of her condition recently. You can understand how I fear a serious concussion, don’t you doctor?”

Brienne wanted to slap him again for taking over the entire interaction and stealing words that should be hers, though she wouldn’t have said them as well.

The doctor seemed to notice her grimace and mistake it for something injury related. “Of course, of course. Do come in, and I’ll have a look. If there is a suggestion of more serious developments, I can arrange an emergency stop before morning, though I’m afraid there aren’t proper medical facilities until we reach the Neck.”

Finally, she found her voice. “I’m sure it will be all right.”

She stepped into the private compartment, feeling Jaime enter right behind her. He left the door open. The doctor gestured to a narrow chair next to the lower berth which contained a completely bandaged patient. So Doctor Qyburn had been the white-coated man she’d seen on the platform that morning with the stretcher, and with the septa who wasn’t present at the moment. The poor patient had a heavy blanket tucked ‘round his body, and dark glasses were perched on top of the bandages encircling his head, like the Invisible Man.

The doctor noticed her staring, and she felt instantly guilty, pitying the victim of something terrible and giving him that look she so often experienced herself.

“Burn victim,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “Poor soul was caught in a factory fire. Even the eyes are sensitive to the light.”

She’d read about a factory fire in the papers when she’d been at the lodge. It was said to be arson or _spies_. All sensationalized headlines. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, trying to push the horror from her thoughts.

The doctor waved his hand in dismissal.

“Her concussion?” Jaime reminded with obvious impatience.

The doctor smiled, his thin lips compressing into nothing. “Do sit, please.”

Brienne took the chair and was happy to note that she wasn’t dizzy from the sudden change of position as she had been earlier. The doctor bent down to peer into her eyes, his own a beady gray under the small glasses. He held up a fountain pen. “Follow the movement, please.”

She trailed the pen with her eyes as he waved it in every direction, feeling no pressure or pain.

The doctor nodded in satisfaction. She steeled herself for the feel of his skeletal hand as he raised his fingers to her head. She winced as they weaved through her hair to find the bump which remained tender and vexing.

Her eyes flickered up to Jaime’s face when the doctor prodded the bump. Jaime leaned against the compartment wall beside the open door, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl twisting his lips. She winced though she tried not to.

Jaime stepped forward. “Is it a nasty concussion then?”

The doctor straightened. “I think not.” He peered down at her, though not very far despite her seated position. “It depends most on your memory. Have you experienced lapses or hazy moments since I saw you this morning?”

She had, though she was loathe to admit it. And she _knew_ she’d felt much better once she’d awakened, at least until teatime with Miss Frey. Things had gone downhill again after that, but she absolutely refused to provoke an emergency stop and be removed from the train until Miss Frey were found.

She looked straight at the doctor. “No, I have not.”

He seemed almost surprised. “Well, that’s good to hear. I believe you will heal quite nicely in that case. It’s just a matter of time and rest.”

She rose to tower over the diminutive doctor. “Thank you. I’m sure my… _friend_ will not bother you again about my head.”

Jaime scoffed. “I’ll bother whomever I please if the situation warrants.”

The doctor smiled indulgently before adopting a more serious expression once more. “You may of course _bother_ me for medical attention should you feel the need.” He withdrew a small hypodermic and tiny glass vial from a leather case before returning his gaze to Jaime. “Do look after her. She really shouldn’t move too much. Perhaps a sedative to ensure a good rest overnight?”

“I do _not_ want a sedative!” Brienne said too loudly.

Jaime peered at her, something in his eyes warning her not to object again.

“It might be wise, doctor. If she gets too rowdy, I’ll poke her myself.” Jaime’s leer was downright indecent.

Despite what most people thought, she was _not_ thick and could _not_ mistake his meaning. Her hated flush didn’t even bother to creep over her skin. It came in a flood, and she had to look down even though she wanted to glare at him until he melted from her fury.

The doctor did not react, he merely held the paraphernalia out to Jaime who stuffed them in his pocket.

Brienne wanted to slap them both, but thoughts of Miss Frey were more important. Jaime grabbed her elbow and began herding her out of the compartment, but she stood her ground and glanced at the doctor. “Have you seen my _other_ friend, the woman you spoke to this morning? A small, older woman called Miss Frey? I can’t seem to find her.”

The doctor remained so still Brienne could barely see him breathe. He took on that faraway expression of sorting through memory before returning her gaze with a rueful smile. “No, I don’t believe I’ve seen her again, though I’ve been almost entirely confined in here.”

Brienne felt disappointment for a second before realizing what his words truly meant. “But you recall her? What she looked like?”

The doctor nodded. “Of course. It was only this morning.”

Brienne smiled to herself. It was something at least. “Thank you, doctor. I might have been worse off if not for your assistance.”

“Of course. It’s my work, after all.” His smiled was all tight lips and no teeth, stretching over his gray face. She shuddered a little.  

Jaime flashed a much less unnerving but just as disingenuous version before stepping into the corridor. A noise from the berth caused Brienne to glance back. The poor burn patient was moving just a little, his head rolling back and forth on the stiff pillow.

“Now, now…” the doctor leaned over the patient, obscuring Brienne’s view. “Some more sweet-sleep, I think. So much pain.”

Brienne closed the door behind her, hoping that poor man would heal from such a horrific ordeal. She immediately began to march down the corridor towards the end of the train where the dining car attendant had said the employee’s lounge area was located, but she stopped when she thought they were far enough from the doctor’s car that their words wouldn’t carry.

She spun around, almost making Jaime trip. “What were you thinking taking that sedative? I will _not_ be subjected to such…such…” she sputtered as words failed to express her outrage.

“Such a _sensible plan_?” Jaime stepped so close his nose almost brushed hers. “You see, I thought it might be a decent idea to have some sort of ability to incapacitate a person who may or may not have hidden away a particular Miss Frey somewhere on this train.”

She stared. She hated that she hadn’t considered it herself. “You’re devious.”

“Never denied it.” He grinned, but it faltered. “I happen to know you lied like a dog about your memory to the doctor. It’s worse than he thinks. Are you well enough to search? Really, Brienne?” He reached out a hand as it to clasp her arm before letting it fall back to his side.

“I’m fine. I have to find Miss Frey.” She stared him down, though it was nice that somebody seemed to care whether she might pass out in the middle of the corridor. It would be easier if that somebody didn’t insist on vexing her and making dirty jokes, but she wasn’t in any position to be persnickety about her companions.  

He sighed. “What a mule you are.”

“And you’re a jackass.”

He eyes sparked. “Then we only need a packhorse to carry Miss Frey once she’s found.”

“I thought you were strong enough, yourself.” She spun back around and headed toward the employee lounge.

His steps were heavy as they followed her. “You believe me now?” Then he mumbled, “I can’t wait to demonstrate.”

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, admitting only to herself that she was very glad not to be alone.

The next car down held their destination, the only other doors belonging to locked storage rooms. She supposed the cargo and baggage cars beyond would mark the end of the train. The lounge door was nondescript and free of brass plates and wood paneling. It looked more like a ship’s door. She knocked.

Jaime stopped so close his arm brushed hers. No one answered the door, so he turned the latch before she had a chance to object. She glared. He shrugged.

The _lounge_ took up half the car, stretching along one side in a narrow strip of grey. There was a dripping sink and a kettle, a stack of old papers, and a dusty curtain flapping in a machine oil-scented breeze from the grimy open window. Three chairs stood empty to match the space. No attendant to identify Miss Frey, no attendant at all.

Brienne refused to be defeated. “It’s all right,” she said almost to herself. “We’ll find him somewhere. And Doctor Qyburn can act as witness, too. He saw Miss Frey. He remembers.”

She glanced at Jaime for confirmation. He grimaced.

She continued with fierce insistence. “We’ll find them both, the attendant and Miss Frey, and if that takes too long, then Doctor Qyburn can tell the ticket master how the Miss Frey in my compartment is _not_ the real Miss Frey. He will know that. Then all the attendants will have to help search.”

“Brienne, I don’t think it’s that easy. Say we drag the doctor over to the false Miss Frey, and then? He says there’s another? So what. The ticket master will just say what he already did. That Miss Frey is sitting elsewhere. I really think we must search first, determine with absolute certainty that your Miss Frey is really not in some other compartment, and _then_ we move forward.” Jaime’s tone was earnest and not one bit patronizing. It was highly irritating.

She huffed as loud as she could. “Fine then. End to end, in every compartment. I have to be sure.”

Jaime grabbed a piece of newspaper with a blank reverse side, as well as a pencil. He flattened the paper against a wall and drew three long rectangles, muttering, “Baggage, cargo, attendant lounge and storage,” as he labeled them. “We’ll have a plan of the train this way. We make our way from here to the front and likely catch that elusive attendant along the way.”

Brienne couldn’t ignore the pulsing sense of urgency that might very well be a strange symptom of her head injury, fooling her somehow, but she nodded. “Let’s begin, or it will be dark before we finish.”

Jaime finished sketching more empty rectangles on the paper before stuffing it in his pocket, grinning. “Ladies first.”

“I’m no lady,” she muttered, already half out the door.

His voice was low and purring as it floated behind her. “That’s patently a lie, and I do believe that despite those hideous trousers, your form betrays you. In places.”

“I’m sure the crimson-lipped girls who love your clarinet are delighted to hear such compliments.”

She heard Jaime speed his steps as he followed, taking up the rest of the aisle to settle as close beside her as the car allowed. “Why Lady Brienne, have you made a dirty joke?”

“’Course not.”

“Yes, you have.” His chuckle fluttered against her skin. “And I’ll have you know that I don’t share the sweet sound of my _clarinet_ so freely.”

“”Course you don’t.”

“Cheeky wench.”

“Don’t call me that. My name is Brienne.” She glared but kept going until they reached the next passenger car where she slowed and began peering through windows.

“Well, you said you weren’t a lady, so you must be a wench.” He withdrew the plan of the train and began marking little boxes to represent the compartments.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake…” She sighed.

He chuckled again but remained mercifully silent for a time.

They searched more cars, one after another until there were only three or so left. The next was where Brienne’s own compartment was located. She halted before anyone inside could spot her.

“Are you unwell?” Jaime asked, leaning against the smooth wood of the car’s wall and wrinkling his brow.

She shook her head, but that was not the best idea. She _did_ have quite a headache still, pounding from frustration and hunger. She pointed. “My compartment. That _woman_ is likely still inside, lying to everyone.”

Jaime was so silent that she was forced to look at him to gauge his reaction.

He was starting straight at her, his green eyes bright and calculating. “Why don’t I have a look?”

It would be trouble. She knew it. But the false Miss Frey had not seen Jaime before…

She sighed. “Yes, all right.”

Jaime stood tall and grinned at her as he swaggered forward toward her compartment door. He paused for a moment as she watched, and then he slid the door open with one quick, clean yank and burst inside.

She moved to lean against the opposite wall, as close to the now-open door as she could without being seen.

“Hello there!” Jaime boomed.

No response.

“Tell me,” he continued, “have you seen my _friend_? Extraordinarily tall, mop of blonde hair, eyes the color of the sapphire sea?”

A gravelly voice Brienne thought belonged to the older, wizened crone replied, “Kind description for that woman. Thought she were a man at first.”

It took too long for Jaime to respond. She didn’t want to consider that he might be smiling at the idea.

His voice was low and cutting when he spoke. “I suggest you look in a mirror and hold your tongue.” Another pause. “You…are you Miss Frey?”

The imposter’s thick Lyseni accent sounded. “Yes.”

“Did you help my friend this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You’re from Essos?” Jaime pressed, for what reason Brienne couldn’t anticipate.

“Yes.”

A pause. “Are you able to respond with any other word than _yes_?”

A matching pause. “Yes.”

Brienne could hear Jaime sighing. He would likely cause one of the tight-lipped passengers to call for the conductor if she allowed him to continue. She braced herself and stepped forward, into the compartment’s open doorway just behind Jaime.

Three sets of eyes settled on her, judgment in all of them. The bald-headed man with the expensive hat was not there.

She cleared her throat. “There you are. I thought you’d be in…in the dining car.”

Jaime glanced back, briefly. “I had supposed you would be with our mutual friend.”

She flinched. He shouldn’t have betrayed that, she could tell. The false Miss Frey’s eyes narrowed into slits, through her expression remained placid if slightly annoyed.

Jaime stood tall and loomed over the imposter, the crone, and the young mother with her colicky baby. “You saw that my friend was injured this morning. I’m afraid she’s confused the name of a woman we met yesterday with this,” he nodded to the imposter, “ _other_ passenger. We’re looking for missing acquaintance but aren’t sure of the name.” He stared at the crone. “Do you remember her?”

The crone stared back. She shrank back into her seat and turned to the window. Nothing would be extracted from her.

Jaime turned to the mother. “You? See anything today?”

The young woman peered up at Jaime with clear fear in her eyes. She was even more unkempt than before. She averted her gaze and jiggled her baby. “I seen nothing.”

She had. Brienne was certain. She examined the young woman more carefully, taking in the tatty clothing that was meant for warmth and not beauty. The accent was northern to the extreme. Brienne understood.

The poor girl was an immigrant, probably illegal. She must have smuggled herself and her child over the northern border where conditions were almost unlivable. There weren’t many people up there in the mountains, but there was starvation and violence everywhere. This girl was almost certainly terrified to draw attention to herself for fear of being sent back. They would get nothing from her, and Brienne couldn’t even blame her for it.

She tugged on Jaime’s sleeve. “Come on. It’s nearly supper.”

Jaime pivoted in the tight space to find her eyes. He raised a brow. She nodded slightly.

He adopted his perpetual grin. “Let’s get your things.”

“What?”

Jaime glanced at the luggage rack above the seats, at eye level for them both, scanning the items stowed there. He grabbed her suitcase, coat, and hat without hesitation and gestured for her exit ahead of him.

She had no other choice as that was the only direction with space to move. At the end of the car, in shadow, was the bald-headed man from her compartment. He stared at her, then nodded very slightly as if conveying a message she didn’t comprehend.

As Jaime bumped her with the suitcase, the bald-headed man swiftly turned away and disappeared. How odd. She heard the compartment door slide shut with more force than necessary, the crone glaring at them through the window when she looked back. The crone drew the curtains.

Jaime chuckled under his breath. “I suppose that’s that. No help there.”

“No help anywhere,” Brienne muttered, peering at the space where the bald-headed man had gone.

“Come on, it’s not as bad as that. Still two more cars left.” He poked her in the side, the edge of her coat swinging between them as it hung over his arm.

She tried to take her things from him, but he held them back. “Just lead the way.”

She did, but huffed a little. “Why take my things? I’ll have to come back anyhow.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s rather hostile in there.”

“What?”

“You sure say that a lot. I’d think you were thick if I didn’t know better.” His voice was cocky again.

“You don’t know me at all,” she challenged.

Silence for moment. “I disagree.”

“You’re free to do so.”

“And you can put your things in my compartment. I’ve got a whole one to myself.”

“’Course you do,” she muttered, then stopped abruptly just before entering the next car, spinning to look at him. “And why would I do that?”

He wasn’t grinning now. “Brienne, those people are lying about what they saw, and there is a woman who has actively tried to discredit you and is pretending to be someone she’s not, and it all seems to be intended on preventing the real Miss Frey from being found. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t set well with me. I don’t know what they’d do if you went back and fell asleep there.”

She waited, to see how she felt about that. She wasn’t sure. “I…I can’t sleep until I find Miss Frey.”

She moved to continue the search, the urgency worse from knowing how little ground there was left to cover.

It took a moment for her to hear his steps behind her again, and his voice was too soft. “And if she isn’t on the train anymore?”

“The train hasn’t stopped.”

“Brienne…if she _isn’t on the train anymore_?”

She didn’t stop. “She is. Somewhere.” She waited for a retort, but there was none.

Just as there was no sign of Miss Frey or the elusive attendant in the remaining cars. At the very end, or rather, the very front of the train, there was nothing but the locked door to the engine car.

Brienne felt weary. She leaned against the cool metal of the door and let it diffuse the flush on her skin.

“You all right?” Jaime questioned softly.

“No.”

He set her suitcase on the floor and gripped her arm. “Are _you_ all right?”

She peered at the place on her skin where his fingers were pressed. She peered at him. She nodded.

His eyes seemed kind. She’d rather see his snide grin than pity.

“We’ve searched every car. There’s nothing more to do right now, Brienne. Let’s get something to eat and go to my compartment for a bit. You probably need to rest.”

Her irritation made her flush. “The train hasn’t stopped. She’s here. We’ve missed something.”

There was that grin. “Of course we have! Every storage closet, the baggage car…lots of places. But do you think we can just burst into them all when attendants are everywhere, as well as the eyes of every passenger?”

She widened her eyes.

He squeezed her arm. “We’ve got to wait until most of the passengers are sleeping and the attendants are drinking leftover Arbor Gold in the service car. We’ll poke about then.”

There wasn’t much else she could do, and she _was_ hungry again. And exhausted. “All right. I suppose.”

He kept hold of her arm, steering her back the way they’d come. Before he could, she picked up her suitcase, the weight almost welcome as she felt so lost. He shook his head slightly and muttered something that sounded like “pig-headed.”

The train was long. She hadn’t realized how many cars they’d traversed in the search, and it took some time to return to the dining car. It was nearly empty as the dinner hour had come and gone.

She saw the table she’d shared with Miss Frey and asked the approaching attendant if they could sit there. He nodded, hanging her coat on the stand at the entry, with her hat perched on top.

She slid her small suitcase under her seat, the same she’d had before, and watched as Jaime settled across from her. He was beginning to look tired himself, though the haze of it did nothing to make him less attractive. She wasn’t sure anything was capable of that.

He ordered for her again. She hadn’t intended to let him, but the attendant had given him the menu and it was done before she even realized it happened.

He looked over at her. “Fish this time. Riverlands trout with gratin, a nice Arbor Red, and figs and cheese.”

She blinked. “I’d rather have cake.”

“I know. They were out.” He smiled ruefully.

“You like figs?” She didn’t even know why she asked. There was nothing else to do.

“No one likes figs.”

She smiled. She just wanted to. The wine arrived, and she watched the deep red liquid swirl around the glasses as the attendant poured, but she knew Jaime was watching her.

The train’s whistle sounded, so much louder in the night stillness. A dense cloud of steam rushed past the window, and the stars went out. Another tunnel.

She looked at the window, and the memory of Miss Frey using her finger to write her name in the condensation washed over her. She didn’t feel tired just then.

She half stood and leaned on her knuckles over the table, staring at the windowpane.

“What are you doing?” Jaime asked, not leaning back though she was very close to his face.

“Jaime, the steam! Look!” She pointed with one hand to the finger-width scrawls there, still in perfect form.

He looked. His brow rose.

“She wrote her name, earlier at breakfast before I fell unconscious. The second time, I mean. She gave her tea to the attendant, and to me, and we went into a tunnel and she told me her mother used to write like this when she was a child, and she wrote that with her own finger.”

And there was something else. Something that hadn’t been there before.

“Just her name?” Jaime asked, staring at the shape.

“Just her name,” she whispered.

There, below _Miss Frey_ , was an arrow pointing past the dining car, towards the rear of the train.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo......it's been awhile. I've left you blue-balled. Both my sad languishing fics are being finished, and this one will be done quite soon. Don't believe me, because I lie!!!! But I've got three more chapters in the can, so that's something, no? 
> 
> I love you all. Thank you for sticking with me. Flibbert, shut your face. 
> 
> This chapter begins right after the previous chapter ends. Brienne has just noticed Miss Frey's name on the dining car window, with the addition of a mysterious directional arrow. Jaime is being sassy.

 

“I told you, not now!” Jaime maintained an iron grip on her wrist, genuinely surprising her that she couldn’t break it.

“You do not govern my actions,” she seethed.

“Your actions seem to be ungoverned entirely.” He gripped even harder, leaned even closer to her from across the table. “What do you intend? You see an arrow which may or may not have been left by Miss Frey, and you’re bent on charging down the length of the train like some knight at the joust? We’ve covered that territory. Nothing good will come of stirring up more trouble and ill will. Learn to be sneaky, Brienne.”

“Like you?” She tried to relax, to weigh the merit his words and not dismiss them simply because _he_ said them.

“Certainly. Though it would do us both some good if my brother were here. He exists to be sneaky. Besides…” he said with a distinct glint in his eye. “…I will physically compel you to remain in that seat and eat a full meal, and then I will carry you over my shoulder to my compartment for a much-needed rest.”

She scoffed. “As if you could.” She was ridiculously nervous.

He grinned. “We’ve been through this before. I believe you have an accurate sense of my strength.” He grinned wider. “Remember?”

Damn her blush. It crept over her skin in betrayal.

“See? There is no point in objecting. That arrow’s been there for hours, probably all day.” He watched her carefully, but the strange combat they were playing was halted when the attendant returned, forcing Jaime to stop leaning over the table.

The man placed savory-smelling covered plates in front of them and nodded before completing the rest of the table arrangement.

Jaime took a deep sniff of the offering, wrinkling his nose. “Bloody river fish. Give me a nice open water bass any day.”

He was insufferable, certainly. She should leave to find Miss Frey now that she had a definite direction. She should question all the attendants about the diners who had occupied that seat. But once again, she was hungry and feeling the weight of her search and her fatigue. And if she called so much more attention to an investigation that had already been so soundly mocked, if could be even worse for Miss Frey.

Brienne reluctantly decided to avoid attracting any further attention than they already had by finishing her meal as quickly as possible. She took an enormous bite of fish and gratin together and immediately pretended that Jaime wasn’t right about the river flavor. She was used to the taste of the sea, salty and fresh as the wind above it, not this stale coppery flavor. She swallowed and didn’t look at him despite his chuckle.

Jaime remained mercifully silent as they finished, the Arbor Gold welcome for once as it cut through the stale flavors of the train fare.

She really did need to rest, perhaps for half an hour. Or an hour. But that was all, and only to avoid experiencing less than optimal faculties as she searched. She rose without waiting for him, sliding her suitcase from beneath her seat, and turning to take her coat and hat. He grabbed her case straight from her hand.

“I don’t see the point of that.” She frowned and stood tall.

He cocked his head, peering at her eyes as he seemed to have done half the day. Probably just to unnerve her. “I’ve got two hands, and it’s called _help_.”

“I don’t need help carrying a small case.”

“You wouldn’t need help carrying an aurochs.” His gaze slid down her arm.

No, she would not participate in yet another of his ridiculous challenges. She squeezed past him in the aisle, almost wedging herself in the space since his body was only nominally slimmer than hers, and he made no effort to make the motion easier.

Once past him, she huffed and marched towards the lounge car. His sure steps sounded behind her immediately.

The lounge was more occupied at that hour, people reading papers and smoking in every seat. Some stood in conversation, making it easier to pass through without attracting attention. She kept her head down, and it was over quickly. No falling into Jaime’s lap. That had been awkward. Hard to forget, really. Embarrassing.

Down another car and another.

“Next one, Brienne. 3-C,” Jaime called from behind her.

Of course it was. The first-class car.

She felt a rush of hesitation flood her, just like her blush. She had refused to remain in her room the night before because he’d been there. It would have been improper, but how would inhabiting the same train compartment be any different? In truth, it wouldn’t, but the idea of scouring the train without any rest, or returning to her own compartment filled with suspicious strangers, was unthinkable. Her head really was starting to pound…

She heard a compartment door slide open but didn’t pause or even look away from the singular focal point of _forward_.

She slammed straight into a body and jolted to a halt until Jaime barreled into her a second after. She was stopped from falling face-first onto the carpet by Jaime’s arm, the one not holding her case, wrapping around her as his heat pressed against her back. She hadn’t even seen the face of the person she’d run into, she was trying so hard not to think about Jaime’s fingers digging into her skin through her blouse.

“Egads! I say!” The victim of her awkward bulk peered where he thought her gaze would be, a nice view of her flushed collarbone. He drew his head back further. “Oh! I _say_!”

She decided to bluster on without letting the young man contemplate her presence for too long. He was the man from the train platform that morning, the one who had stood next to Renly Baratheon who she had not seen anywhere on the train earlier during her search and had in truth been entirely forgotten. There had been several darkened compartments however. Regardless, Renly was very likely near, and she had absolutely no desire in the world to have a conversation with that ghost from her childhood.

Jaime burst out before she could stop him, his breath hot on the side of her neck. He had not moved nor taken his hand from her ribs. “We’re looking for a friend, a Miss Frey. She’s…confused. She forgets where she’s meant to be, so we thought…” Jaime stepped slight to one side in order to see the young man more clearly over Brienne’s shoulder, and she felt him tense instantly. She thought he might be trying to shield his face in her shadow. He continued in an odd, low voice. “She…might have gone into someone else’s compartment by mistake.”

“Oh! Well!” The young man adopted a strange, gleeful grin. “No women in here, I’m afraid, but I say!” It appeared that Jaime had been too late in his attempt to hide, for the young man’s eyes widened. “Jaime Lannister! Fancy that!”

Brienne felt her body tense more than she thought possible. She very, very slowly turned to look at Jaime, his hand sliding around her body as she stared straight at him. He had the decency to look at the carpet.

“Renly? I say, old bean, look who’s appeared!” The young man called too loudly behind him into his compartment.

Brienne closed her eyes. Renly Baratheon was the last person she wanted to see. No, second last. The first would be a _Lannister_.

She heard someone shuffle about, and then another presence added itself to the cluster at the doorway. “Who is it, my…Loras?”

Brienne opened her eyes. There was no hiding.

Renly gaped and craned his neck back. “I say! Lady Brienne! Whyever are you hanging about?” He turned to his companion. “Imagine that, Loras, Lady Brienne Tarth, all the way from Tarth! That island, you remember? I was there once. I say, Tarth!”

Brienne had no choice but to face Renly, unable to escape the prison of Jaime’s arm as she tried to smile a placid greeting. Jaime _Lannister_.

“Fascinating!” Loras exclaimed. “But look there! Jaime Lannister of all people!”

Renly looked. “What’s this, now? I say!”

Brienne watched Renly’s expression which had turned from what she thought was genuine surprise but not displeasure at seeing her, to a hint of aggravation as he spotted Jaime. _Lannister_.

“Renly.” Jaime nodded, his cockiness returning, but there was a certain defensiveness in his eyes, too.

“Well! And what a… _fine_ pair you make! Imagine that, Loras! Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth of Tarth! Imagine that.” Renly shook his head as if he could _not_ indeed imagine any such thing.

Brienne knew she blushed. She could feel it like a cloak wrapping around her, but it was neither cozy nor welcome.

“I see you lack much imagination, Renly.” Jaime’s voice snapped behind her, his hand tightening against her side. “Anyhow, as you don’t seem to be harboring stray women in your compartment, we must adjourn to ours. You know how dull these trains can be at night. Only one desirable activity, as I’m sure you agree.”

Renly nodded with a glint in his eye that seemed equal parts annoyance and glee. Loras paled in surprise, glancing at Renly with apparent concern. 

She could not pretend ignorance about Jaime’s meaning, but such a brazen declaration made her blush all over, on behalf of herself as well as Renly. She found her feet moving her farther down the passage until she was halted in front of compartment 3-C. The door opened, and she was inside with bright lights casting warm glows over fine furnishings.

Her coat was hung on a hook near the door, her hat perched carefully over it. Her suitcase was settled beneath a tiny table attached to one wall. She felt herself pushed with gentle insistence to sit on the long divan that would turn into a bed from the magic of the first-class valet.

He sat on the divan, too, half turned toward her yet as far away as he could be in the cramped space. There was a sort of dare in his eyes. “All right, let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“You know what. Subject me to the derisive stares, the reflections on my past of which you know nothing but are unaware of that fact, the judgments and sentences.” He leaned closer. “The conflict befuddling your mind as you try to hate me.”

She blinked. “I don’t hate you.”

“But you’re trying.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. She thought he was trying to convey defiance, but there a bit of defense there as well.

Was she trying to hate him? No. Despite his…reputation, and despite his certainly uncouth behavior at the northern inn, he had not given her any reason to hate him besides his reputation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she murmured. She needed more space and cold air, but there was neither available.

He raised one brow and flashed a rueful smile. “You would never have trusted me if I had.”

“I don’t trust you now,” she said. It was automatic and true, yet instantly regretted.

He blinked and turned his face away, toward the window that was closed and covered by a heavy velvet curtain.

It wasn’t what she had meant. Oh, she didn’t trust him, but she didn’t trust _anyone_ apart from her father. It wasn’t particular to Jaime Lannister.

“Well I trust you,” he said in the same low tone she had used.

She could not deny that she was curious about him. Rare was the person whose darkest day was known to all.

“Did you do it?” she couldn’t stop herself.

He snapped his gaze back to her. “Of course I did. Literally everyone knows I did.”

She swallowed. There was something there, hidden in him that he kept shielded behind an army of defense. She knew how to recognize that. Her own was stalwart and impenetrable.

“Why?” she asked, calmly and gently.

He stared at her. “Do you know, no one has ever asked me that.”

“How can that be?”

He barked a cutting laugh. “Because they _know_ why. They know what they’re told to know. They form their reasons so strongly, who am I to argue? Only the person who was there. What is that in the face of delicious _scandal_.”

“So they’re wrong?”

“Everyone is wrong.” He whispered to himself, not looking at her but at his own hands. Then he glanced up. “Do you want to know, Brienne? Do you really want to know why Aerys Targaryen is dead because of me?”

He did not say _murdered_.

She leaned back into the comfort of the cushions, showing him that she would not run. So they talked. She learned the great secrets of the Targaryen family, the great darkness. She learned how a young lad’s life had been utterly destroyed by a single decision that happened to have saved many hundreds of lives. She learned that he regretted nearly everything he’d ever done except for that.

And sometime during this outpouring of truths, she decided she might perhaps trust him, certainly did not hate him, and was in significant danger of dearly missing his company later.

He learned how her grandfather had lost what little money remained from the ancient Tarth legacy. He learned how she lived in the small gardener’s cottage of the Tarth estate, with her ailing father. He learned how her father’s caretaker would imminently have to leave him if money were not found, and quickly, and how he would likely not last long otherwise.

He learned how Renly Baratheon had been kind to her so long ago. He learned that she was set to marry Hyle Hunt in the coming weeks. He learned that she did not love Hyle despite the fact that she said not a word about it.

At some point, his eyes fluttered shut as he slouched next to her on the divan, their heads cradled by the cushioned back and her legs drawn up after kicking her boots off. She stared at his face until she could no longer focus.

 

* * *

 

Brienne stirred as a thin sliver of moonlight found its way through a gap in the velvet window curtain, flooding her face with pale light. She breathed in deeply, a foreign scent of tall fir trees and clean skin surrounding her

There was a faint clink from the corridor, then another that forced her to awaken completely, only to realize with mortification that her face was pressed against Jaime’s warm neck.

On the rare occasion when she’d come close enough to Hyle to identify his particular scent, it had been a mixture of ale and Baelish’s Brilliantine which kept his black waves similar in texture to chilled pork fat.

Her cheek itched from the wool of Jaime’s jacket. She sat up instantly, nearly banging her already-distressed skull against the wall. She had fallen asleep on the shoulder of a _man_ , which would be bad enough on its own, not considering that the _man_ was Jaime Lannister.

She was supposed to hate Lannisters. All people with honor were supposed to hate Lannisters, particularly _Jaime_ , and if nothing else, she prized her honor.

But she did not hate Jaime. She almost pitied him in truth, but he would despise her for that. He did not want pity. She thought he simply wanted fair judgment which would certainly never be given by the public. A certain hint of shame crept through her, as she of all people knew what it was to be judged on sight, and she deeply regretted how she had made him feel before giving him his chance to explain. Now that he had, she only saw Jaime the snide clarinet-player who was the only person to bother believing in her sanity.

The sliver of moonlight shifted to paint a stripe over his face, from ear to jaw. She swallowed thickly from the proximity of his beauty. It made him seem untouchable like a painting in a museum, to be enjoyed from a safe distance and never up close or with the graze of a finger.  

The clink sounded from the corridor again, closer it seemed. Purposeful, right outside the door. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She stood and stepped carefully toward the compartment door, bending to catch her discarded boots in one hand

There was only a faint _click_ as the door opened. She glanced to her left where the cars would lead to the train’s rear, expecting to see nothing and no one. The bald man from her own compartment was there at the end, half in shadow, staring right at her. His dark suit gave the illusion that his shiny head was floating in the black like a fortune teller’s trick. So he _had_ been beckoning to her earlier, had made noise enough to lure her out now. Had he drawn the arrow on the window and not Miss Frey?

A skeletal white hand extended toward her, gesturing for her to follow. She nodded very slightly as he had done before, then stepped out fully into the passage, turning to close the compartment door as noiselessly as possible. Something was wrong. Not just about Miss Frey, but also about this ghostly man. She knew it instinctually, the nerves along her spine warning her of imminent danger.

She threw her boots back into the compartment, hoping the bald man would see it as a desire on her part to remain silent as she walked. One boot hit Jaime’s leg. Her aim was always true.

Jaime jerked awake, staring wildly in every direction. When his gaze landed on her, she only widened her eyes and moved them quickly to the right, trying to tell him where she was going. The whole thing took mere seconds, and she closed the door without looking back.

She walked slowly and gingerly along the passage. The bald man moved far ahead, keeping nearly a compartment’s length between them, but always staying in sight. When she reached the end of the first car, she paused in the doorway as she watched the bald man wait for her to step forward. There was the click, behind her, to tell her that Jaime had unlatched his door. She moved on.

It seemed to take ages. The bald man opening a door, she crossing a compartment to catch it before it closed completely, listening for Jaime’s soft steps as he kept out of sight. Over again. She passed the staff compartment where the empty lounge was located, still no noise from within. All that remained now were the baggage and cargo areas. _Two_ cars, she thought.

The bald man’s shadow was barely visible as he moved far into the first baggage car. She caught the door and entered, her eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden flood of darkness. There were no windows, and only a square casement on the ceiling, the width of her shoulders. The bald man passed underneath, and he glanced back quickly.

Her heart beat wildly. She stopped moving. The bald man was small and wiry, and she didn’t doubt that she could defend herself easily if required. But perhaps he was not alone. Perhaps there were others waiting in the darkness in the final car. Perhaps Miss Frey were there, waiting for a friend.

She stepped forward. A glint of metal flashed as she passed underneath the stream of silver from the casement. Her right hand reached for the crowbar and hid it behind her back as she approached the last door, propped wide open and welcoming as a dungeon.

There was only an identical casement to light this car, and she saw no sign of the bald man, though there was nowhere else he could go. The train rumbled loudly all around her. She caught the little click though. It could hardly escape her as she waited for it with heavy breaths and sweat pooling between her breasts.

Jaime was there, behind her. She was not alone. She imagined she could feel the heat of his body though he was certainly too far for that. She stepped forward as she clutched the crowbar until her nails dug into her palm.

A fierce grip below her elbow caught her off guard. She’d made a horrible mistake, looking forward into the car and not into the darkened depths on either side of the door. The bald man grinned with blackened gums as he yanked her inside. She tripped, the crowbar flying as her palms slammed against the rough wooden floor, torn by splinters. The door slammed shut. Instantly, a fierce pounding sounded as Jaime demanded entry. She could hear his muffled shouts and the bones of his hands hitting the unforgiving surface.

Miss Frey would not be here. Miss Frey was likely dead. Whatever the circumstance, these people after Miss Frey were dangerous, and not that cinema sort of danger where it was equal parts excitement and adventure. Real danger. She was very angry that she’d failed herself.

She rose to her feet and tried to brush away the slivers embedded in her skin. She faced the bald man as Jaime redoubled his efforts to reach her, apparently throwing his shoulder against the door judging by the noise.

The bald man looked ghoulish in the dim light, his rotted smile gleaming. “You are quite persistent, Miss Tarth.”

She wasn’t sure why, it was certainly out of character, but she corrected him. “ _Lady_ Tarth.”

The bald man nodded genially. “Lady Tarth.”

She straightened to her full height and looked down at the man with the most superior expression she could manage. “What have you done with Miss Frey?”

The man cocked his head. “Odd, how you care so deeply for a stranger.”

_She was kind to me_ , Brienne thought, as if that would somehow erase the truth of his statement. Miss Frey _was_ a stranger. Yet… “She is an innocent woman, and you have harmed her.”

There was a minute’s reprieve from Jaime’s pounding at the door, and then it renewed.

The man smiled at the unrelenting wood. “Wrong on both counts. She is far from innocent, and I have done nothing.”

Brienne was abruptly filled with rage. The concern for Miss Frey, the danger presented to her own person, the likelihood that Jaime would dislocate his shoulder at this rate…she set them aside, weary of this game. “I will ask you once more, _ser_ , where is Miss Frey?”

The bald man turned to face the far end of the car. He nodded and looked at her, waiting.

She kept some distance between them, stepping back against the large baggage shelves lining the car’s walls. It took her a few steps to adjust to the light at the far end, to make visible the long wooden crate resting precariously atop a thick stack of planks bound by rope.

The lid of the crate was askew. This was wrong. Oh, she knew what she would find within the crate, and could not allow herself to be distracted by it. It was the man. What was he playing at, showing her this way? Luring her here?

She spotted an unlit lantern on the floor near the crate. If she could throw at the bald man’s face, the glass could cut him and the lamp oil burn his eyes. It would be easy from there. But what the purpose of this charade?

She drew nearer the crate, so focused on forming a plan that she not noticed for too long that all sounds from the other side of the door had ceased. This did break her concentration. Where was Jaime? She stared at the door, unmoving. Did the bald man have henchmen who had attacked Jaime? Of course he did. Whatever happened to Miss Frey, there was more than one person involved.

The bald man must be dealt with. She strode to the wooden crate, not looking down at the lantern but dragging it closer with one foot. She stood over the crate’s open lid with mustered preparation to see the dead grey face of Miss Frey.

Inside, at peace and wearing a tiny smile, was not Miss Frey.

It was the dining car attendant. The one who had fetched Miss Frey’s special tea and could not be found soon after. Brienne gasped, shocked at the victim’s identity and pitying the poor boy. Whether he had been complicit or not, she doubted he had known the danger he’d gotten himself into. Now he was dead, and possibly because of her actions in searching the train and bringing attention to Miss Frey’s disappearance. She swallowed bile. She would not cry.

The bald man stared at her. He expected her to attack him, and he did not budge. She bent slightly, as if requiring the solid crate to prop her up from her shock. Her fingers grazed the handle of the lantern.

The bald man casually reached into his jacket as if to withdraw a packet of cigarettes. It was a revolver instead, and it was now pointed right at her chest. He had no need to be wary of lanterns. By the time she could pick it up and throw it, he would fire.

This was quite a pickle. She laughed to herself, causing the bald man to frown and extend the revolver farther in her direction. _Pickle_. It was her father’s phrase. He used it whenever he had eaten the last of the honeyed ham or when his knees weren’t working on a particular day. Would he even know what had happened to her, if she were shot in the darkest car of a moving train? How easy it would be to throw her body from the rear.

She could not allow it. She remained frozen for two…three…four…seconds. She dropped to the floor behind the heavy crate and waited to hear the shuffle of polished shoes.

The bald man cursed and began to move cautiously toward her. “There’s no saving you, _milady._ Your beautiful young friend has deserted you, can’t you hear?”

Did he want her to believe that while his compatriots had incapacitated Jaime? She was almost surprised that no part of her believed he really had abandoned her. Perhaps he had gone to find help.

The bald man seemed unconcerned about Jaime’s presence at all. That did not bode well, and she swore that if this troupe of criminals had harmed Jaime as well as Miss Frey, and murdered the poor attendant to boot, she would not wait for the justice of the land to sentence them.

Her adversary spoke once more. “It was unfortunate that the lad had to be,” he paused, “ _retired_ , but the inconvenience of explaining his death has been gladly resolved by you, my dear.”

He was baiting her. She wasn’t quite sure which action would be in opposition to his plan. She needed time. “And how am I a satisfactory resolution, Mr…?” She moved immediately from the spot so her voice’s betrayal of location would be irrelevant.

He chuckled. “You may call me Mr. Pree in your final moments. You see, you’re quite unbalanced. Paranoid, demanding, even violent. The whole train has observed your behavior. It will be quite easy to establish that you, in a fit of rage, strangled the lad when he failed to help you in your delusion. Neat, no?”

Yes, a neatly wrapped package of guilt that would eliminate the _inconvenience_ of the dead boy and herself. Smart. But it didn’t account for Jaime.

She shuffled on her socked feet, crouched awkwardly against a row of cargo boxes. If she could get behind _Mr. Pree_ without making noise, she could jump him and knock the revolver out of his hand.

The man was fast approaching the crate that was her shield, the light from the casement bleaching him of all color. She could see clearly if she peered around the stack of planks, her face buried in the shadows.

A clatter sounded from above. The train must be entering another tunnel, causing a rattling echo. But no, it was too staccato. Too insistent…

Mr. Pree looked up. This was her chance, possibly her only one. She used her height and speed to her advantage, lunging around the crate and toward the villain, and it might have worked. It might have, if not for sudden shattering of the casement glass, the pitch blackness that descended for mere moments as all light was obstructed. The heavy drop of a large body through the roof and straight onto the bald man’s slender form.

The revolver fired.

“Jaime!” she shouted, scrambling to reach the two men without slicing her feet open on the veil of glass covering half the car.

They were struggling, or rather, Mr. Pree was struggling under Jaime’s superior strength. The revolver skidded across the floor toward her. She wasn’t sure why there was now no surrender considering how outmatched Pree was. Then she saw moonlight glint off the long, ugly knife he held in a vice grip. It would be easy to overpower him, but not easy to do so without risking serious injury. The knife’s blade looked to be a half a foot in length and was pointed at Jaime’s eye.

The boiling rage returned in force, and she forgot about the shards of glass or the tattered leaves in Jaime’s hair, or the fact that he had somehow climbed onto the top of a moving train and dropped himself back into another car just because she had been stupid enough to get herself trapped. She picked up the revolver and held it in her two steady hands, pointed at the bodies. She only had to find an angle where Jaime were not at risk.

“Stop!” she commanded.

They paid no heed.

“I will shoot you, Mr. Pree,” she stated firmly, staring at the bald man.

He stilled. Looking at her, he let go of the knife, the heavy handle clattering against the floor which was covered in small pools of blood, as were both men.

Jaime stood, not looking at her, but cautiously staring at their adversary. She kept the revolver fixed on him as he rose, chest heaving and looking very worse for the wear.

Jaime kicked the knife away. It skidded under a shelf, unreachable. Then he breathed in relief and leaned back against a shelf with both hands resting on the edge. He might as well be reclining in the lounge car, a nice cigar flaming between his pink lips.

He grinned at her. “Quite a lark, no? And to think, I almost didn’t come after you in your room at that quaint northern lodge. What a mistake that would have been!”

She had not flinched from Mr. Pree’s form. So she caught it, the instant he grazed his hand near his waist and clutched a second gun, a smaller but equally deadly pistol. She shouted at Jaime to move, barely understanding that the pistol was moving to point at her.

Jaime lunged. His hand wrapped around the stubby barrel of the lethal toy, jerking it away from its trajectory. It fired.

She wasn’t quite sure who screamed. Maybe they both did.

Jaime doubled over, clutching his hand to his chest. The bald man’s finger squeezed against the pistol’s trigger. Her finger squeezed against the revolver’s trigger…

One gun fired.

 


End file.
